Page 31 of Breaking Silence

“We learned from the coroner that your brothers and sister-in-law may have been murdered.”

He staggers back, as if the words wield a physical punch. “But … how can that be? They fell into the pit. How can that be murder?”

I refrain from telling him about Solomon Slabaugh’s head injury. You never know when someone’s going to slip up and mention something he has no way of knowing—unless he was there. “One or all of them could have been shoved into the pit.”

“Aw, God.” He raises his hands, sets them on either side of his face, and closes his eyes, as if the horrific images are being branded into his brain. “Who would…” When he opens his eyes, I see realization in them, and I know he knows why we’re here. “You think I did that?” Incredulity resonates in his voice. “You think I killed my own brothers? My sister-in-law? You think I’m evil enough to do such a thing? That I would leave my nephews and niece orphaned?”

“You had a beef with your brother.”

“We had our differences. But I would never have hurt him. I would never have hurt any of them.”

“We know about your arrest,” I tell him.

“That was a long time ago.”

“Two years ain’t that long,” Pickles puts in.

“You have no right to come to my home and accuse me of this terrible sin.” His mouth flutters, as if he can’t get the words out fast enough.

I sense an escalation coming. I don’t know if it will come in the form of tears or violence or both, but I brace for an attack. Pickles senses it, too, because he eases his five-foot-two frame between us, daring the younger man to make a move. I stare at Slabaugh, trying to see inside his head, inside his heart, see beyond the theatrics and drama and the hard slap of grief. But when I look into his eyes, all I see are the jagged layers of shock and outrage, interspersed with flashes of sorrow so heavy that his shoulders seem to bow beneath the weight.

None of those emotions exonerates him. Experience has taught me grief doesn’t equal innocence. When I was a homicide detective in Columbus, I worked a case where the killer truly mourned the loss of his victim. When the confession came, he explained how difficult it was to dismember someone you loved. Looking at Slabaugh, I know it would be premature to take him off my suspect list.

“No one accused you of anything,” I say.

Slabaugh takes a step toward me. “You insinuated—”

“She didn’t insinuate shit.” Pickles sets his hand against the other man’s chest and pushes him backward. “Now back off.”

Slabaugh looks down at Pickles as if he wants to strangle him. His eyes are a little wild when they find mine. “You don’t know me. You don’t know what’s in my heart. I loved my brothers. And I love those children.”

Setting my hand on the baton strapped to my belt, I sidle back a step. The last thing I want to do is get into a confrontation with this man. Guilty or innocent, if he crosses a line, I won’t hesitate to take him to jail. “You need to calm down.”

“I don’t like your questions!” he shouts.

“I’m investigating a triple murder, Mr. Slabaugh. I’m asking questions that need to be answered. If you want us to catch who did it, you’d be wise to cooperate.”

He’s breathing hard. I see spittle on his lower lip. His eyes are wide and slightly out of focus. “I didn’t do it. I couldn’t do that. They were my brothers.”

I give him a minute to regain his composure. “Did you leave the farm at any time last night or early this morning? Did you go anywhere?”

“I worked here. Feeding livestock. Mucking the pens. I worked on the tractor. I was alone the whole time.”

“Did you speak with anyone on the phone?” I ask.

“No.”

“Do you know of anyone who might’ve had a problem with your brothers or sister-in-law? Any kind of dispute or argument?”

“They were good people. Good neighbors.” He shakes his head. “They were Amish, for God’s sake. I can’t see anyone wanting to hurt them.”

“No money disputes? Land disputes? Anything like that?”

“Solly and I were once close, but after I was excommunicated…” He lets the words trail off. “He didn’t exactly confide in me. But I don’t believe he had any enemies. He was a decent man. Fair-minded.”

Pickles jumps in with the next question. “What about his personal life? Any infidelity going on? Anything like that?”

“Solly was a good husband, faithful, and a good father. He would never betray his wife or family in that way.”